Drinking.
Izabel had commented on the number of empties on the table in his apartment, jokingly asking if he’d had a party without her.
He hadn’t. They were all his. But he’d lied anyway, just to ease the hint of worry in her eyes.
Even Jimmy Bexter’s comments about the drum track for the album being one of the best he’d heard had done nothing for the gnawing pit in his stomach that just seemed to keep growing and growing.
And nothing he could do would fill it. It was as if he’d tripped his emotional switch and it was now in the permanently off position.
Matt squeezed his shoulder. “I’m just getting Nan, Auntie Pat, and Izabel into a cab, then you and I are leaving.”
Luke picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Yeah. Are we going out?”
Matt shook his head. “We’re walking home, and you’re going to talk to me.”
Luke glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a solid hour walk home, it’s late, and it’s probably pissing down.”
“Well, the beer buzz you’ve got going on should keep you warm. Say goodbye to Jase and Cerys, do what you’ve got to do, but be ready in five minutes to go.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not six.”
“Well, stop acting like you are and get your shit together.”
Fuck Matt. He’d stay exactly where he was. Near the bar. He reached for another cold beer. Perhaps he’d take another for the road. Which he’d travel in an Uber, not on foot.
When Matt walked into the room, he headed straight for him. “You need to come with me,” he said, quietly.
“I’m not walking home with you.”
“Yeah. I don’t think you are, either.”
Luke let out a sigh and followed Matt outside. Matt pointed in the direction of a chick with a suitcase, her back to him. Cute butt in grey sweats and sneakers. When she turned, the air was sucked out of Luke’s stomach.
“Good luck,” Matt muttered, stepping back into the recording studio.
“Hey, Luke,” Willow Warner said.
Memories of the two of them assaulted his senses. The way she’d moved when she shimmied out of the oversize jeans she’d been wearing. The scent of her skin, heady and floral. The taste of her, when she’d tugged his hair as he devoured her. And the almost shocked delight as he’d navigated her through four orgasms.
Last time he’d seen her, she’d been fast asleep in the large hotel bed they’d spent the evening exploring their off-the-charts chemistry in. Her pretty pink lips slightly open, her tanned long limbs calling to him one more time. But he’d had to leave. He hated shitty morning farewells. And she lived in LA, while he lived in Manchester, so it wasn’t like a repeat was on the cards any time soon. He preferred to think of it as saving them both from the awkwardness rather than ghosting her.
But now, beneath the flawless makeup, there was a hint of dark circles beneath her eyes. Her cheeks a little sunken beneath the peachy blush. Nothing like the happy sweetheart she was in her videos, or had been in bed that night, no matter how hard she tried to cover it over.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No, I’m not.” She repeatedly wrung her hands over and over and he reached out to grab them. They were chilled to the bone. “I need help, Luke. You were the only person I could come to. And it’s been an ordeal of a trip. Can I come stay with you for a little while?”
“How long for? I mean, sure, like, tonight?”
She looked around, and then her soulful brown eyes met his. Yeah, he looked forward to getting reacquainted.
“No. Twelve months. You left something behind in Detroit,” she said. “I’m pregnant. I don’t need you to marry me or anything stupid. But if this gets out that I got knocked up by a one-night stand, I’ll lose everything. My followers. My sponsors who invest in my wholesome platform. So, I have a deal for you. One million dollars and twelve months of your time to pretend I’m the centre of your world. Make them believe we’re in love and want this baby, then we’ll realise we aren’t meant to be, and I’ll go back to LA. I helped put your band on the map, which has skyrocketed your career, now I need your help to save mine. It seems fair, don’t you think?”
Twelve months . . . A million dollars, whatever the fuck that was in pounds.
She took her hands from his and pressed them against her flat stomach. Luke sobered up faster than he ever had before.
She was pregnant. With his kid. A child. The very last kind of responsibility he wanted.
With a deal guaranteed to ruin them both.
Thank you
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Willow
Love’s an illusion.
Everyone around her is out for what they can get, except a drummer who wanted nothing more than a steamy one-night stand.
But two blue lines later, she’s on the fast track to career destruction as America’s number one wholesome content creator.
Saving her reputation and collaborations will require a plan and a little social media fakery. Okay, a lot. Like twelve months of pretending to build a family with the rockstar of her dreams.
Luke
Love’s an anchor.
Responsibilities and lack of band success have kept him trapped. But now, with the band suddenly making it big and his family obligations gone, life is off the rails. Yet fame, women, and arena tours only go so far in helping keep his pain buried.
Until one of the most spectacular nights of his life comes back to haunt him.
A baby. A fake relationship. And a million dollars. Is it the perfect arrangement to avoid responsibilities? Or a deal guaranteed to ruin them both?